Hiram gazed at her with slow comprehension, then he dropped the photographs and smoothed his wife’s hair as she bent over her choice. “That’s right,” he said radiantly. “That’s _your_ story, Rosalie,” handing a photograph to her. “This is ours.” The girl looked at the pair, wondering, and wistful. She had not learned that the heart is never old. “Tell us more news from Boston,” said Betsy when they were again settled around the fire, Rosalie on a low stool pressed close to her side. “It is all pleasant. I had such an amusing letter from Nixie. He says Helen is swimming to the top of the social wave, that his mother is busier than a hen with one chicken, and that he himself sobs heavily in corners owing to her neglect. He says the Bruce household is serene, all but Miss Frost, who is too happy to be serene. If she has one drive a week with Mrs. Bruce in her electric, he says she talks about her cousin’s generosity the next six days. Nixie says Mrs. Bruce seems really ashamed to complain of anything—” “There,” interpolated Betsy gladly; “it’s workin’.” “Yes,” said Rosalie, “such a cheery little woman is a sermon. It makes me think of some verses I have seen:— “‘Just being happy is a fine thing to do; Looking at the bright side, rather than the blue; Sad or sunny musing, is largely in the choosing, And just being happy is brave work and true.’” “That’s gospel, that is,” remarked Hiram. “You learn that, Betsy, and say it to me every time you plan to have Mrs. Pogram to dinner.” Rosalie went back to her school-work with good courage, refreshed by the visit to her friends. Early in December she received a formal but kind note from Mrs. Nixon asking her to spend the Christmas holidays with her. She smiled as she read it. Mr. Derwent was behind the invitation, she knew, and Robert reinforced it by one of his hare-brained but hearty epistles, begging her to accept, and promising her a luridly enthralling experience. She was glad she could tell them that her promise was given to Betsy for the holidays. There would be a strange pleasure, she thought, in seeing her summer playground in the embrace of winter. The starry Thanksgiving snow had vanished by morning; but now, Betsy said, the great rock near the cottage looked like a giant’s wedding-cake. The weeks wore on, and the evergreen time drew near. On Christmas morning Rosalie wakened in her white room under the eaves of the Salter house. It had been furnished with an air-tight stove in honor of her visit, and Betsy came in early to make a roaring fire. “Merry Christmas, Betsy!” cried the girl, sitting up.